


morsels

by Ashling



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Grace Burgess Lives, F/F, Getting Together, I truly think that if this was a PacRim AU they'd be drift compatible, Past Grace Burgess/Tommy Shelby - Freeform, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: Grace has mastered many arts in her time balancing two children with two empires, but there remains at least one thing left to learn.
Relationships: Grace Burgess/Lizzie Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10
Collections: By Order of the Peaky Blinders Fic Exchange 2019





	morsels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [herequeerandreadytofight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/herequeerandreadytofight/gifts).



> belated but loving!

Poor Hanlon. His round face is scarred but earnest as he makes his way through the party to Grace. His borrowed suit doesn't fit right, and it makes her want to do something motherly—fix a lick of his dark hair where the pomade has lost the battle to a cowlick, maybe. Grace can feel someone coming up at her left elbow, and she turns her head just in time to take in a look on Lizzie's face that says Lizzie was thinking the same thing. Amusement, fondness. The old Peakys, battle-hardened, are still vital to operations, but the new crop of young ones belongs to Grace and Lizzie both. Grace is not so ungenerous as to deny that, despite certain amounts of set dressing, the Peaky empire has two de facto rulers. She's grateful for it, really.

By the time Hanlon reaches them, they both have slid on different smiles, still warm. They are both of them well-practiced at warmth. 

"Yes, ma'am?" Hanlon says, and it sounds like _mum._

"Our friend by the drinks table is still wearing his coat," says Grace, indicating the right man with a small movement of her head.

He looks a little crestfallen. The emotional transparency on these new boys is almost enough to make Grace feel guilty. "Shall I hang it up for him, ma'am?"

"No," Grace says patiently. "It's warm enough for sleeveless dresses, which means he's hiding something under his coat. Usually it's a photographer looking to snag something for the papers. But if it's not—"

"Right!" He looks very excited. _Boxing isn't the same as fighting,_ she wants to say, but she stops herself.

Instead, all she says is, "Take someone with you."

"Yes, ma'am!" He practically bounces off.

Grace turns to Lizzie, about to say _yes?_ as shorthand for _what's going on, why did you want to talk to me when you could be pumping benefactors for money,_ and gathering up her wits to say something complimentary (though not too complimentary) about the emerald glitter of Lizzie's dress. Then she stops. There's that look in Lizzie's eyes again: fondness, amusement. More fondness than she had for Hanlon. Quite a bit more. Lizzie takes a sip from her flute of champagne, and Grace suddenly feels sure that Lizzie did that to hide.

"What?" Grace says, and she finds herself smiling at this, a smile that she did not prepare beforehand.

Lizzie shakes her head. "I was coming to ask you about the man in the coat."

Grace doesn't know what to say to that. She could say something offhanded and meaningless— _great minds—_ but she doesn't want to. It is so comforting that she is not alone at the top. It is so good to know that she's not the only one building safety nets under this endlessly teetering mess which is supposed to house her children.

Lizzie doesn't seem to mind the silence. For a long moment, she just looks back. Grace notices that sometime along the long years, the faint and constant sense of strain has fallen away from Lizzie, leaving only the dignity behind. It suits her well.

Then, at Grace's right elbow, Polly, a diamond diadem nestled in her riotous curls, the life of the party with some new calculation behind her eyes. "There's a man by the drinks table—"

Lizzie chokes back a laugh. They've both come far, but neither of them can get away with laughing in Polly's face when they're only tipsy. Still, Grace feels that same impulse. A minute ago she had been convinced that she and Lizzie had some alignment of minds and souls because of one basic tactical observation, and she didn't even get five minutes' worth of smugness before Polly came along to stomp it out. That's the Shelbys for you, always and still. 

With one pointed glance, Grace indicates Hanlon. He has stopped to grab Eddie on the way to the drinks table, and now all three women watch the little scene play out as if it's on a stage. The man, whoever he is, gives up quickly. 

"Well," says Polly dryly, and with that, she's off. 

Grace snags a new flute of champagne with her left hand from a passing waiter, hands it to Lizzie, and then takes Lizzie's empty flute for her own. 

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" says Lizzie, but she sips anyway. It's been a long social season, lots of parties. The both of them have developed a fearsome tolerance that even Arthur can't scoff at.

"Yes," says Grace. And then, exasperated: "He's always late."

 _He_ being Mr. Waverly, a well-financed shipping merchant with a good heart but an extremely indecisive personality. A new item on the list of tasks she had to finish before the night was over, in other words. 

"You should've kept the champagne for yourself," says Lizzie, to which Grace makes a tiny dismissive gesture with one hand, _I'll be fine,_ and sets off. She's halfway to Waverly when she notices, at the very bottom of the grand staircase, two little figures peeping out behind the massive, elaborately wrought newel post, and she changes course without a thought.

It is only well after she has Charlie and Lily tucked back into bed, only when she re-enters the party and a waiter offers her a flute of champagne, that she realizes she had not so much as looked at Lizzie before she went for the stairs, and yet she is completely certain that Lizzie saw enough to go deal with Waverly herself. It's more than basic tactical thinking between the two of them. It's like each of them is an arm of the same body. There's no surprises with Lizzie, only certainty, and Grace finds that more reassuring than the men in borrowed suits, more reassuring than the gun strapped to her leg. She finds Lizzie with her eyes, always visible in a crowd with her height, smiling at something that dreadful Churchill is saying. Lizzie too is at ease, or as much as anyone can be around a man that nerve-grating, and Grace likes to see it. She doesn't talk to Lizzie for the rest of the night. She thinks nothing of it.


End file.
